


the ever-favorite object of my heart

by ossapher



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Diptych, Gen, One Last Time, Stay Alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 21:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16840456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: Two vignettes, some twenty years apart. Hamilton, Washington, and their mutual cares, labors, and dangers.





	the ever-favorite object of my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [herowndeliverance (atheilen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/gifts).



> A birthday present for herowndeliverance. May your next birthday be better :)
> 
> No warnings.

George can’t say that he’s looking forward to the perimeter check, not with the sun three hours past set and the wind outside whipping so fiercely the draft makes the candles dance. His aides squint and struggle over their papers. All save one, Alexander, who is instead struggling with his coat.

“Here,” McHenry says, standing, “let me—”

Alexander tugs it on with a violent movement and stalks out of reach, glaring. He has only just returned to work after a long and serious illness, and still sensitive to anything that might be perceived as coddling. He wraps a wool scarf round his face and tramps over to George, by the door.

“Are we going?” he asks, in a tone far more demanding than one might expect in a subordinate speaking to his commander-in-chief. He’s the only one of the aides who hasn’t run a perimeter check yet, and George can tell he’s eager to get the experience over with so he can count himself his friends’ equal again. Yes, the philosophy is rather absurd, but George remembers being young.

“After you,” he says, pushing open the door and allowing in a colossal gust that—to judge by the cry of indignation behind them—immediately blows out at least one candle.

Once they’re outside, George is eager to speak to Alexander alone. Not for any particularly urgent work business, but they haven’t spoken on a more personal level since before Alexander fell ill, and George is eager to hear from his own lips how he fares.

“And how are you, son?”

Alexander looks annoyed. “Ready to be going, sir.” At George’s look, he adds, “Whenever you are.”

George’s breath takes that moment to tickle in his throat, and he coughs into his hand hard, hacking until eventually the irritation subsides.

Alexander’s eyebrows are raised. “Shall I fetch McHenry, sir?”

“That won’t be necessary,” George says. “But… I don’t know if we need to make this ride tonight.”

Alexander narrow his eyes, and not only against the wind that threatens to whip the tears straight out of them. “If the honors of this war are to be shared, Your Excellency, then I should hope that the hardships would be as well.”

“Meaning what, Alexander?” By God, if the man is insinuating—

Alexander fidgets, one hand under his collar. “Meaning… I only hope this is not for my sake, sir.”

One walk in the cold would not be sufficient to break him. George has to believe that, if he is to be able to sleep at night. But to force him to endure it for the sake of his pride would be cruel. Purposeless. A waste of labor, of danger, of care, when they are required to subject themselves to so much of all those already.

He pulls open the door and gestures for the young man to return to the light and the warmth inside. “No, Alexander,” he says, quite honestly, “It is most certainly for mine.”

* * *

“Well?” George asks, after the last resonant phrase has faded. “What do you think?”

He knows already that the words are wonderful. _Perfect_ , he might even say, except for Alexander’s knack of improving even upon that. He only hopes he hasn’t ruined them with his delivery.

Sure enough, Alexander has a dissatisfied look about his mouth, one George long ago learned to read, one that foreshadows trouble. But he says only, “It should be _cares, labors, and dangers_. Not _labors, dangers, and cares_. Sounds better that way.”

“You’re the one who wrote it, Alexander,” George laughs.

“Yes, and as such, it’s my right to revise as I see fit.”

“Hm. Cares, labors, and dangers.”

“Yes.”

Washington looks out at the stage and the lectern, all over festooned with patriotic bunting. He and Alexander are waiting in the wings, now, but he could step out upon the boards at any moment. Make his last entrance. He makes sure his notes are in order, draws himself painfully up to his full height.

“Sir,” Alexander says, catching at his sleeve. “Before you go.” He’s served at George’s side for these last eight-and-more years, and yet something—the occasion, the light—puts George to mind of the men they were even longer before that. When Alexander was the frail one, between the two of them. But that’s how things go. You cultivate a sapling, and one day it overtowers you. It’s not a bad thing. Perhaps you can even enjoy the shade.

“Yes?”

“It’s—it’s been an honor, sir, to serve with you.”

A chill runs down George’s spine. “We spoke once,” he says carefully, as though picking his way through deep snow, “long ago. About how those who shared the hazard might also share the glory.”

“We—yes. Yes, we did.” George can see the memory—the cold, the blue-black night, the hunger—in the sudden squaring of Alexander's shoulders.

“Well, then. In the name of our—what was it—of our _mutual cares, labors, and dangers_ —I would say that the honor belongs to both of us.”

And he looks upon a double image now, the youth, shivering but straight-backed, and the statesman he became, who has written words worthy of history—of George’s legacy—straight onto the page. He says, “But privately to you, Alexander… please allow me to say that it is all mine.”


End file.
